


Switcheroo

by okapi



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23694631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: On a weekend in the country, Bertie ends up with the wrong evening jacket. Hijinks ensue.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 15
Kudos: 75
Collections: Dick or Treat - Scrohto Region





	Switcheroo

**Author's Note:**

> For 2020 DW Dick or Treat & my Jeeves Bingo square G-4 'naughty letters.' The first half of his is country house hijinks, and the end is the smut.

“Weekends in the country aren’t what they used to be, Jeeves!”

“How so, sir?”

“I’ve just had three attempts on my life!”

“You alarm me greatly, sir.”

“That makes two of us! One attempt might be understandable, I mean, bucolic charm and all that, but I draw the line at three!”

Jeeves shimmied towards the door with a chair in hand and wedged the back of it under the knob. Then he said in his usual unruffled manner, “Do tell, sir.”

“After the evening’s browsing and sluicing, the gents retired to play billiards. A good time was being had by all even though the host Colonel Frettilby, like all Arctic explorers who have finally hung up their snowshoes, keeps his rooms as hot as a Dante’s picnic spot. So, down to our shirtsleeves, perspiring freely, amongst the chalk and felt. Bingo was showing off, as is his custom, going lemon-to-lemon against that weaselly fellow Whyte. I’d had enough of the heat and decided to go outside for a cooling cigarette. I grabbed my jacket and left the party just as Bingo was pulling off a rather juicy trick. I stayed close to the manor and had just sunk my hand in my pocket when I heard my name. I turned and saw Whyte approaching at a quick clip. Then there was a thunk. Something had fallen from above between us, narrowly missing me.”

“What was it that fell, sir?”

“A potted African violet.

“An African violet?” repeated Jeeves thoughtfully.

“Yes, just like what happened to Lord Melbourne in _The Mystery of the Handsome Cab_.”

“Ah, yes. I remember the novel, sir. Not a favourite of mine.”

“It did lack a certain something.”

“But back to your tale, sir.”

“Yes, well, I looked up and saw a first-floor window closing. People came running from inside, and Whyte made himself scarce. You’ll agree that such an occurrence is enough to leave any cove unsettled so I decided to make my way back here. I was travelling the long corridor when—whoosh!—the breeze of a hummingbird’s wings brushed my cheek, and I found this in wall near my head.”

I produced a thin spike with a feather at one end.

Jeeves studied it then went to the desk and retrieved an envelope. “May I, sir?”

“Careful, Jeeves. If I am not mistaken, this is one of the blow darts that Major Frettilby brought back from one of his expeditions.”

“I shall, at all costs, avoid touching the end dipped in the tranquilising agent, sir.”

Jeeves drew on a pair of gloves and opened the envelope. I dropped the quill in the envelope and gave the envelope to Jeeves.

“Potted violets raining from the sky might or might not be among the forgotten plagues, Jeeves, but you’ll allow that a blow dart sends a certain irrefutable message.”

“Undoubtedly, sir, but I believe you mentioned three attempts.”

“The final was just down the hall. I felt someone behind me, but at the last minute, I ducked behind that awful sculpture, the one that resembles a rather unfortunate specimen of the Gorgon sisters.”

“I believe that is a life-sized rendering of the late Mrs. Frettilby, sir.”

“My shadow was waylaid by the tottering madam, and that gave me the chance to escape. I didn’t spare a backwards glance at my assailant.” I peeled the outermost layer of the gent’s crust and handed the garment to Jeeves. “It’s enough to make a fellow break out in a cold sweat and suspect, well, he’s for it. I say, Jeeves, did you pack the cosh?”

Jeeves harked not the query of the y.m., not even to say in America, such a weapon is called a blackjack. He only had eyes for my jacket.

“This isn’t yours, sir.”

“What? Do you mean to top it all I’ve gone and pinched some blighter’s raiment?”

I didn’t bother asking if Jeeves were certain. He knew my wardrobe better than I did.

Jeeves pressed a gloved finger along a slit in the silk lining, then he reached inside and retrieved two folded sheets of paper, which he promptly unfolded.

“Jeeves! It’s a letter.”

“Avert your eyes, sir.”

Jeeves knows that reading another’s correspondence is not _preux_ , and thus contrary to the code of the Woosters. The code of the Jeeveses is, I gather, moot on the subject.

“It’s a letter from a lady who calls herself ‘R’ to a gentleman by the name of Cristophe. It goes into some very flattering detail about Cristophe’s physical qualities and is exceedingly explicit about what the young lady hopes will transpire at their next meeting, which she awaits with,” he coughed, “ardent anticipation.”

“Jeeves!” I cried, unable to keep the peepers closed, code or no code. “This is a very naughty letter!”

“Indeed. Written on the stationary that Major Frettilby provides for the guests in their rooms. Without date or envelope.”

“There’s no one in the weekend party by the name of Cristophe. Not even, I’d wager, as a second name.”

“Downstairs, either, sir, to my knowledge.”

My stomach commenced to tie itself in a sailor’s knot.

“Jeeves, I think I recognise the handwriting.”

“As do I, sir. Mrs. Little was kind of once to give me her grandmother’s recipe for Bakewell tart.”

“Pudding.”

“Tart, sir.”

“Well, the ‘R’ may be for Rosie, Jeeves, but Bingo’s name is decidedly not Cristophe.”

“No, sir, and this isn’t Mister Little’s jacket either. This pocket is very deftly sewn. I have only seen its kind once in my career, and that was in the wardrobe of a blackmailer.”

I gasped. “Do you think someone’s going to blackmail Rosie?”

Such a thought was enough to make me forget, momentarily, about the recent attempts at my demise.

Then there was a sudden knock at the door.

“Wooster!”

It was Oliver Whyte.

Jeeves put a gloved finger to my lips for silence and called, “I am afraid Mister Wooster has retired for evening, sir. My name is Jeeves. I am Mister Wooster’s valet. Perhaps I may be of assistance.”

I turned towards the door, my back to Jeeves.

“Well, perhaps, um, a bit embarrassing this, but by any chance, did Mister Wooster pick up the wrong jacket? I seem to have his. At least, I believe it has his cigarette case in the pocket.”

“A moment, sir. I shall check for you.”

With that, I turned and spied Jeeves waltzing as cool as a c. to the wardrobe with jacket in hand and opening the door and reaching in a producing the cosh, which he silently passed to me.

We exchanged significant glances of the before, after, and during the crime variety, and after Jeeves removed the chair, I tucked myself behind the door, waiting to pounce.

“Yes, sir. You are correct, sir,” called Jeeves through the door. “Many apologies, sir. Mister Wooster went straight to bed without noticing the error or informing me of it.”

“Quite all right.”

Jeeves opened the door. I held my breath.

But nothing occurred except the exchange of jackets and another round of apologies and ‘not at all’s.’

When Jeeves closed the door, I exhaled and whispered,

“Jeeves, did you return the letter?”

“Of course not, sir. I substituted two pages of blank stationary from our own supply.”

This gave me a tiny sliver relief. “As much as I hate to think about Rosie being unfaithful to Bingo, I hate more the idea of that blighter making her miserable.”

“He is ruthless, sir. You were fortune and clever to have escaped him three times.”

The penny dropped heavy and hard. “Jeeves, Whyte was trying to get his jacket back!”

“At any cost.”

“I need to find Bingo at once.”

“With all due respect, sir, _we_ need to find Mister Little.”

“Jeeves, I don’t want anything to happen to you. You said yourself this blackguard has no scruples.”

“Sir, if I’m not coming,” Jeeves took the cosh from me, “you’re not going.”

“All right, Watson.”

No sooner had we peeked out into the corridor and registered the ‘all clear’ than who should appear but the very man we sought.

“Bertie, I’m in jam!” cried Bingo.

“I know!”

“How do you know?”

“Jeeves knows everything.”

“Then you know I’ve got a meeting in the billiard room with this scoundrel Whyte. He makes Rupert Steggels look like a choir boy.”

“We’re coming with you!” I said, then lowered my voice. “I have the cosh.”

We arrived well ahead of Whyte. The hour was late, and the room was empty. Jeeves had the brainy idea for he and I to hide behind the bar which was in one corner of the room. Bingo poured himself a brandy and s. and waited in front of the bar. I gripped the cosh tightly and waited for the first sign of trouble.

“Very wise of you to join me, Mister Little,” said a weaselly voice. “Your wife has been very naughty. If you don’t want the world to know how naughty, you’ll pay.”

“What you suggested earlier is preposterous. What proof do you have, you rascal?”

“It was very silly of her to forget her letter in the library.”

Just then I heard the door open, and a delicately nurtured voice say,

“Oh, is that where I left those? Thank you so much, Mister Whyte.”

“Not so fast, Mrs. Little. You’ve been very naughty. You’ve forced my hand. Your husband and the world are going to know about Cristophe!”

“I certainly hope so, Mister Whyte. Cristophe is one of the main characters of my latest novel. My heroine, Rowena, a poor but honest shepherdess, is desperately in love with him.”

“But you talk about his loins!”

“An artist has to evolve, Mister Whyte. I tried my hand at the detective genre, but my editors, the public and I agree that _The Mystery of a Handsome Cab_ lacked a certain something.”

At this, I almost sprang up.

Rosie M. Banks was also Ferguina Q. Hume!

Jeeves, too, went a bit stuffed (but silent) frog at the revelation.

“I have decided to return to the romance genre but add, if you’ll forgive the euphemism, a bit more spice to the stew. My publishers are hopeful, and if you were to make the contents of that letter known, well, it might whet the reading public’s appetite for Selena de Saffron’s _To Woo a Rueful Rake_.”

“ARGH!”

Before Whyte reached the door, however, Jeeves was there, but I realised too late that I still held the cosh.

Jeeves slapped Whyte on the neck, and the villain crumpled to the floor like Rowena’s petticoat.

Jeeves raised his hand to reveal the tranquilising dart clasped between his fingers.

Bingo, Rosie, and I applauded.

* * *

The following day Jeeves and I returned to the peace and quiet of London.

“When I write this up in my memoirs, Jeeves,” I said as I readied for bed. “I must remember that there only two genuine attempts on my life. The first attempt was Bingo trying to hit Whyte. He got the idea from _The Mystery of a Handsome Cab_.”

“Not the most precise of weapons, the potted violet.”

“No. One must make allowance for Bingo.” I sighed. “But such a relic of a bygone time, Jeeves. The blackmailer. And his ammunition, too. I mean, the Sherlock Holmes stories are chocked full of Victorian blackmailers but who writes incriminating letters these days but Selena de Saffron?”

Jeeves acknowledged the point. Then he removed his dressing gown and climbed into bed, clad only in his beautiful skin. He settled himself in a sitting position at the head of the bed with pillows around him. I followed suit, tucking myself in front of him and relaxing against his chest.

“I say, would you ever write such a letter, Jeeves?” I asked.

“No, it would not be a risk I would not be willing to take.” He kissed along my neck. “Would you?”

Jeeves always discarded the ‘sir’ with his clothing. It was lovely.

“No. I am not a good correspondent.”

I inclined the lemon the other way, offering more territory for the kissing. Jeeves obliged. His index finger and thumb found my nipple. With the other hand, he reached towards the open jar of slick on the bedside table.

“But, in theory,” I said when Jeeves was giving the pride of the Wooster some well-lubricated attention, “I would probably focus my efforts on how much I appreciate your fist around my cock.”

I turned the onion, and we locked lips. Our tongues slipped and slid. Then I spent a goodish bit of time sucking on Jeeves’ bottom lip.

During this bliss, Jeeves’ fingers set to work on my other nipple. His fist still pumped.

“And I, for my part,” he rumbled when his fingers finally abandoned my bud, “would probably extol the pleasures of sodomy in relation to your handsomely carved arse.”

I rolled on one hip allowing Jeeves’ finger to launch its rear campaign while his fist continued its steady frontal assault.

“Find my sweet spot, Jeeves,” I implored.

He nuzzled at the side of my neck. “Don’t I always, Bertram?” I shivered as I always did when he said my name. “You are my sweet spot, you know.”

I closed my eyes and surrendered myself, as always, to Jeeves’ very capable hands.

Three of Jeeves’ fine digits were buried inside my arse by the time my corpus had reached its limit.

Jeeves kissed me through the trembling and the cock-spitting and the panting.

“Sod me, love,” I breathed when I remember how to breathe. “I need your cock in me.”

Jeeves pushed at my shoulders gently, and I folded forward onto the bed atop the bedclothes.

Jeeves followed and mounted me at once.

“Hypothetically,” said Jeeves, picking up the earlier conversation thread once his cock was fully sheathed, “I would describe in heady detail the ecstasy provided by this sweet,” he thrust with each descriptor, “wet, hot, tight hole.”

I groaned and licked my lips and replied,

“And I would describe in similar detail how much I crave your huge, thick cock inside my sweet, wet, hot hole, and how country house intrigue and billiards with blackmailers and almost being rendered unconscious by falling houseplants is no substitute for a first-class buggering in the privacy and comfort of one’s own home.”

“Very well put,” moaned Jeeves.

“Just like your cock at the moment, my love,” I retorted cheekily.

At this, Jeeves spent, withdrew, and collapsed. I revelled in the weight of his body on mine.

“Bertram?” he asked as he cleaned us.

“Mm?”

“When we’ve recovered, might you consider…?”

At the hesitation in his voice, I twisted and looked over my shoulder. I scanned the finely chiseled features and beautiful blue eyes. “Jeeves, are you asking for a bit of the ol’ switcheroo?”

He nodded.

“I shall ravish you just as Cristophe ravishes Rowena while the flocks graze on the meadow.”

And then Jeeves, that handsome sod, blushed just like a shepherdess.


End file.
